


Patient; Sleepless

by BrosleCub12



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Best Friends, Depression, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John is a Very Good Doctor, Post-Season/Series 04, Scenelet, Sherlock is a lovely godfather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 06:51:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10939233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: 'I'm here.'





	Patient; Sleepless

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this this afternoon when I was experiencing some depressive feelings and needed some comfort and catharsis. The title is inspired by John Keats' 'Bright Star.' (Our boys are stars). A short scenelet that was meant to be a 221b but had a mind of its own. 
> 
> As per, I do not own _Sherlock._

 *

‘Everything dies away, now.’ Sherlock sits on the edge of John’s bed at two in the morning and ruffles his hair, frustrated but unable to sleep it away, just as he’s been unable to sleep for the past week. ‘Everything seems to flicker out.’

John, holding Rosie in his arms as he feeds her, eyes him sadly, unsure how to help. Or rather – knowing how to, really, just unable to with his daughter currently having dinner. He settles for nudging his foot against Sherlock’s hip, finds a smile for him. _I’ll be with you shortly._

When Rosie’s been burped, rocked and put back to bed, he sits down next to Sherlock and with considerable care, puts an arm around him.

‘You’re having a bad day, aren’t you?’ he asks, tiredly. ‘Night. Month. Whatever.’

Sherlock smiles, cryptic, as John runs a hand up and down his back, supportive. Depression, pure and simple; here comes another black dog and not the sort that Sherlock would fall to his knees to instantly pet.

‘I don’t know how to just…’ Sherlock shakes his fingers at his own head, _‘settle._ To what I was.’

 _‘Who_ you _are,’_ John corrects, sternly; Sherlock is very much a _who,_ not a _what._ ‘And you’ve been under a lot of strain, mate. It’s okay not to be – you know. Gunning all barrels.’

He shrugs as Sherlock looks at him; only three months since the whole mess with Eurus and he pulls his friend a little closer, just because. It’s oddly warm in the room, but the heating isn’t on downstairs, clearly, because Sherlock feels cold.

(Sherlock’s been going back to the island. John knows this, from the eight-hour absences and the missing Stradivarius and he’s said nothing. He has no right to say anything, he feels, not when he was the one who married an assassin).

‘You know,’ he murmurs. ‘I get what you’re feeling. You’ve gone through war – hell. It’s mad. And. Well. Now you’re here.’ He gestures rather feebly around at his room, his own humble dwellings, the place that he once more calls home. ‘But you’re not alone. You’re _not,’_ he emphasises with a brief squeeze to Sherlock’s shoulders, his arm cupping Sherlock’s forearm in a rather comradely fashion. ‘I’m here. Rosie’s here.’

He gestures to the cot with his head, his daughter – Sherlock’s goddaughter – lying inside, content and oblivious to their detective’s quiet torment. She’s nearly a year old now, able to throw her rattles with ease every time Sherlock walks past her, giggling at his faux-exasperation and always reaching for him. John should be jealous – is, rather, if he’s honest with himself – but truth be told, it’s such a bloody relief.

He reaches down and claps his hand firmly over Sherlock’s, lying limp on his thigh.

‘You’ll be fine,’ he meets Sherlock’s eyes, gentle. ‘I promise, you’re going to get better.’ A vow he’ll try his best to keep, even if he broke his other ones. You’ve got to try and improve yourself somewhere, after all. Sherlock breathes through his mouth, looking defeated and John squeezes his hand. _I’m here._

‘Stay in here tonight, yeah?’ he suggests. ‘Stay here with Rosie.’ He knows his baby well enough to know that she would love to wake up to see Sherlock first thing; will probably be standing up in her cot in a matter of seconds, joyfully and loudly demanding his attention.

‘And you?’ Sherlock hedges. John pauses, thinking it over, rather than just refuse, as he would have done once upon a time. Less lonely for him, certainly and he can’t say he wants to stand by anymore and watch Sherlock suffer. (He’s done enough of that already).

‘If you like,’ he shrugs finally; can’t do anyone any harm and it’s probably nicer, probably better, if all three of them are together.

They’re a team, after all.

*


End file.
